


The Whipping Boy

by TurtleTotem



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Childhood Friends, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, background Raven/Irene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: Young Prince Erik is defiant and rebellious, and his regent, Lord Sebastian, would dearly love to put him in his place. It is illegal to strike one of royal blood, however -- so he brings in someone who won't pose that particular problem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BadLuckBlueEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadLuckBlueEyes/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tumblr Fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7632082) by [BadLuckBlueEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadLuckBlueEyes/pseuds/BadLuckBlueEyes). 



> Basically I took the medieval-ness, the general angstiness, and the Cerebro incident in the original, reversed which of them was the prince, combined it with another medieval idea I liked, and ran wild. I hope you enjoy it, Blue Eyes!

"Your Highness," said Lord Sebastian, his smile wide and empty, "allow me to introduce His Grace the Duke of Greymalkin, Charles Xavier, who is to be your whipping boy."

Erik looked from Lord Sebastian to the boy in front of him, standing with Sebastian's hands clamped on his thin shoulders. For an alleged duke, he certainly wasn't impressive—somewhat younger than Erik's fourteen years, skinny and pale, tumbling brown hair in need of a trim and blue eyes that were almost eerily big for his face. He was dressed very finely, but the heavy robes of velvet and satin seemed ready to drag him to the floor. "My what?"

"Your Highness has proven resistant to most conventional methods of discipline. It was decided, therefore, that an experiment with older, less gentle methods was in order." Lord Sebastian nudged the boy forward a step. "The Duke will be your closest companion henceforth. You will eat together, sleep together, attend all lessons and events together."

"To what end?" Erik asked.

"With their majesties the King and Queen dead, as you know all too well, there are none living with the right to strike royal flesh. Not even your humble Regent, who in all other ways acts in your lost parents' place." Lord Sebastian bowed low, low enough to be suspected of sarcasm, though of course it could not be proved. "Young Greymalkin, however—while high enough in birth to be a respectable companion to Your Highness—faces no such barriers to discipline."

"So you actually do mean 'whipping boy.' Should I misbehave, he will be whipped in my stead."

"Precisely."

Little Duke Greymalkin swallowed and went, if possible, a little paler.

"Well, I hope that will amuse you, Lord Sebastian," Erik said with a shrug, and left the room.

Sebastian's voice hissed to the boy behind him, and little footsteps skittered on the marble floor, dogging Erik down the corridor and up the stairs.

This was going to be annoying.

 

 

That first day, the little duke seemed almost as eager to avoid Erik's attention as Erik was loathe to give it. He did accompany Erik everywhere—sitting beside him at table, loitering in a corner of his room, riding several paces behind during a desultory attempt at a hunt—but he was nothing more than wide eyes and furtive mouse-movements. It was impossible to view him with anything but impatience and exasperation.

In the late afternoon, when the day was at its warmest and most lazy, Erik had his mathematics tutor. This was a continual battleground, with the tutor attempting to make his prince care about figures instead of staring (or outright escaping) out the window. It seemed an excellent time to test Lord Sebastian's new idea.

Erik drew obscenities on his slate, shouted obscenities at the tutor when he took the slate away, and started passing blattering wind every time the man tried to speak. It was great fun watching his face get darker and darker red.

At first, it seemed that the presence of the whipping boy stifled, rather than encouraged, the tutor's impulse toward punishment. The man visibly collected himself at least twice after glancing from Erik to Greymalkin, perhaps because of the obvious unfairness of the situation.

And then Erik managed a particularly long and rumbling trumpet, with a little afterthought of a squeak at the end, and Greymalkin laughed.

It had the sound of a laugh that has been held in for too long, and once released is helpless to stop itself. The little duke tried to muffle it, burying tears of mirth into his arms on his desk, but it couldn't be done.

 _Well_ , Erik thought, raising an eyebrow, _how about that_.

"So be it!" the tutor shouted. "Three licks for you, then, and three for the prince!"

Without further ado, the tutor snatched Greymalkin from his seat, yanked his trousers down, and laid six hard stripes across his bottom with a walking cane.

The shocked silence in the room seemed bigger than a mere three people could generate. Greymalkin gave a couple of odd, hiccupy sounds, his eyes very wet, but he did not let himself cry. Once released, he stood straight and stiff, color burning high on his cheeks; one hand tugged the hem of his shirt, making sure his modesty was preserved. From behind, Erik could see enough of the little duke's reddened thighs to know that they had to hurt—a couple of darker places hinted at coming bruises.

"May I pull my trousers up, sir?" Greymalkin said. It was the first time Erik had heard him speak; his voice was deeper and steadier than he had expected, his accent exquisitely posh.

"You may," the tutor said, gruff and shamefaced. "That's—enough for today's lesson, I think. Go on, boys. I hope we can all do better tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Greymalkin said. He put his clothing back in place and turned to go; Erik trailed after him, uncertain what to do or say, which was a completely new sensation for him.

 

 

That night, Erik retired to his room to find that, true to Lord Sebastian's word, a second bed had been placed beside his own, along with a second trunk and wardrobe to hold Greymalkin's belongings. In silence, the two of them dressed for bed and crawled under their respective covers. Erik blew out the candle, leaving only the light of the embers in the fireplace.

"You held up well to your beating," Erik said at last, the words floating into the darkness.

"I've had worse," Greymalkin replied.

"Oh? Are you a mischief-maker, then, like me?"

"No. My sister calls me a prig, actually. Somehow I'm always getting beaten anyway." Surprisingly, a smile tilted his voice. "At least I deserved it today."

"You might as well deserve it," Erik said. "I've no intention of letting Lord Sebastian put a leash on me, even in the form of a small boy."

"Not that small," Greymalkin said hotly. "I'm twelve years old. You're only two years older."

"And a foot taller."

"And a mile thicker in the skull. Your Highness."

No one had _ever_ spoken to Erik that way. After a startled moment, he decided he liked it, and felt a wolfish grin spread over his face. "You may call me Erik."

The little duke shuffled to the edge of the bed and held out his hand. "Charles."

Erik did the same, straining to reach just the tips of Charles's fingers. Close enough to a handshake. They fell asleep like that, facing each other, still smiling.

 

 

It turned out to be… not so bad, having Charles around all the time. Though he tended to be quiet and still when adults were around, his private comments to Erik were witty and perceptive, sometimes downright audacious. He was better at most lessons than Erik was, which might have made him jealous—but instead of getting annoyed when Erik didn't catch on, like the tutors did, Charles seemed downright excited to have a chance to explain and demonstrate his favorite subjects until Erik understood them. Anyway Erik was better at languages, and certainly better at anything athletic. He didn't even have to feel bad for laughing at Charles's clumsiness when Charles was usually laughing harder than anyone.

"I haven't had a lot of friends," Erik said one night, in the safe near-dark of their bedroom. "I never knew how to talk to other children, when I met them. They would step playing when I walked in, to bow to me and say 'Your Highness'…"

"That sounds very lonely," Charles murmured. "At least I had my sister. And my stepbrother, but his was not… pleasant company."

"Is he the one who used to hit you?"

"Sometimes. He's a bully, but he comes by it honestly. Learned at his father's knee." Charles fell into silence.

"Is your stepfather your regent, then, like Lord Sebastian is for me?"

"Yes. Sending me here was a magnificent opportunity for him, I'm sure he climbed over any number of other candidates to manage it. I'm out of his way, but in a most respectable manner, one that may have great political dividends for our House later but gets me beaten now. It couldn't be more perfect for him."

Erik winced at this reference to beatings—but Erik hadn't done anything too terrible lately, and Charles had taken his few trivial swats with flair, visibly bolstered by Erik's approval and support. There was something a little awful about that, but Erik hadn't figured out yet what it was. "Do you worry about your sister, left there with them?"

"I would, but she's gone away now, too, to a convent school. In her letters she complains of feeling caged, but at least they're kind to her. She says the nuns are like hens, mothering everybody." He was quiet again for a moment. "I don't remember much of my mother. Do you?"

"Some." A great deal, actually, but he tried not to think about it. "She was very sick, by the end. Thin as a bird. Always smiling, though, at least when I was there. My father smiled too, for her sake. Then after she died, I don't think he ever smiled again." Not that he'd had much time to recover from his grief, struck down in an inconsequential border skirmish less than a year later.

"I don't remember my father at all," Charles murmured. "My mother used to say I look a lot like him, though."

"Ah," Erik said gravely, "so he was a pale, skinny, freckled thing who tripped over his own feet—"

"Fighting words, by Jove!" Laughing, Charles launched himself from his bed onto Erik's and began battering him with a pillow.

Erik won the ensuing pillow fight by sheer mass, but Charles made him struggle for it, only tapping out when Erik had him pinned too thoroughly to move. Afterward, they both lay sprawled in different directions, panting and red-faced, still muttering insults at each other—and eventually fell asleep that way.

Somehow Charles rarely slept in his own bed after that. It was so much more convenient to them both, to have the other right at hand.

 

 

Lord Sebastian left them alone those first few months, distracted by some kind of revolt in an outlying province. Once it was settled, however, he reappeared in Erik's life with a vengeance.

"Your tutors tell me your performance is somewhat improved," he said, after calling Erik and Charles to his study—a move that already had Erik fuming. As if Sebastian had the right to _summon_ his prince. Who was whose regent? "Though your behavior continues to be disruptive," Sebastian added.

"I have to entertain myself somehow," Erik said. "Maybe I wouldn't, if my lessons were more interesting."

"There is a great deal about ruling a kingdom that is not interesting," Lord Sebastian said. "You had best learn to cope with your responsibilities even when they bore you."

Erik glanced at Charles and rolled his eyes, but to his surprise, Charles only gave him a raised eyebrow. As if he were _agreeing_ with Lord Sebastian.

"I don't get any of the advantages of being king," Erik said. "Why should I have to suffer the hardships of it?"

Lord Sebastian did not quite allow himself to roll his eyes, but instead turned his attention to Charles. "The presence of Your Grace is not having the effect on His Highness that I had hoped for. Is it possible that this arrangement is a failure?"

"No, sir," Charles stammered, his face going white.

"Is it possible that you are actually encouraging the prince in his misbehavior? That, in fact, you ought to be sent back to your stepfather with a note of complaint, like a rotten cabbage to the grocer?"

"No, sir, please!"

"You shut your hellhole of a mouth, Sebastian!" Erik snapped. "You even try to send Charles away and I'll make you bleed for it."

This aggressive an outburst was… unusual, even for Erik. He swallowed, but didn't break eye contact with Sebastian—who didn't look angry, he realized with a sinking in his stomach. Things were usually much worse when Sebastian didn't look angry.

"I see," Sebastian said. "If you feel so strongly about it, then of course he will remain in his current position. Which of course means taking the punishment for your disrespect toward me just now."

 

 

Lord Sebastian did not wield the whip himself, of course—Erik had never seen him get his hands dirty, either literally or figuratively. That task fell to Captain MacTaggert, the head of the Palace Guard, a tiny slender woman whom even Erik had learned not to antagonize. Her face was stony, her spine stiff, as she approached the trembling boy tied to a post in the courtyard.

Erik had overheard MacTaggert trying to talk Lord Sebastian out of doing this. He wouldn't forget that. And he wouldn't forget that Sebastian wouldn't even hear of granting mercy.

The whip flew, and cracked against Charles's back, leaving a bright red welt. Charles didn't cry out, but gave a loud, shocked gasp. Erik clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.

The second lash broke the skin, leaving a line of scarlet blood. Charles made a choking sound, and Erik could have sworn MacTaggert cursed under her breath. She shifted her hold on the whip.

All around them, people were watching—servants, nobles, anyone who happened to be near the courtyard. No one had announced or explained the whipping, but there was only one reason to tie the prince's whipping boy to a post. Erik hated them all, every one of them, for standing there gawking and doing nothing to help Charles—not that Erik was helping either. What could he do? What could any of them do?

The fourth lash opened the skin again, forming a perfect X on Charles's back, and that time Charles screamed. Erik took a step forward, one hand half-raised, but Lord Sebastian grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back with a grip like ice and iron.

Five lashes, and it was over—a small sentence, Erik supposed, for a hardened soldier or sailor, but Charles was thin and soft and only twelve years old. MacTaggert dropped the whip as if it had burned her hand; two of her men were already cutting Charles down and helping him into the arms of the waiting physician.

Erik shook Sebastian's hand off his shoulder and followed Charles into the infirmary.

 

 

Dr. McCoy assured Erik again and again that Charles was in no danger, that though his back assuredly hurt, the damage was not severe, and would heal quickly. While Charles was still half-swooned, the doctor dosed him up with poppy syrup, and laid him on his stomach to have the wounds tended.

"He won't wake for hours, Your Highness," Dr. McCoy said, his voice and manner nervous as always, though his hands were steady as they went about their work. "There's no need for you to trouble yourself."

"I'm staying," Erik said, and took a seat at Charles's bedside.

Sometime later, Erik woke without any memory of falling asleep, chin dropped against his chest and neck aching. Charles's eyes were open, barely visible in the dim moonlight from the window. He looked confused and bleary, and when he tried to sit up, stopped immediately with a gasp.

"Be still, be still," Erik said quickly. "You've got it bleeding again. Here, let me…" He fumbled around in the dark room until he found the little pot of ointment Dr. McCoy had been using. He dipped a finger in and began spreading it across the cuts; the previous layer had been mostly absorbed now. "The physician said this will help with bleeding and pain, just be still."

Charles gasped, now and then, and shuddered, and made tiny high-pitched sounds in his throat; each one was like a stab to Erik's gut. "I'm sorry, Charles," he whispered as he continued spreading ointment. "I'm so sorry."

"That's good, Erik," Charles said, gently, _encouragingly_ , even though his voice was breaking as he tried desperately not to cry. "That's how this is supposed to work. You have to learn, you have to understand your responsibilities. It's quite—ah!—it's quite a well-constructed metaphor, really, for how a king's mistakes can hurt his kingdom. How a king has to think about others, not himself." He'd lost the battle, and stopped speaking as tears began to drop onto the pillow, catching in his lashes.

"I'm not here for a lecture," Erik said, putting away the ointment and gripping Charles's hand. "Even if you're right."

"Of course I'm right." Charles gulped air, trying to calm himself. "It's cold in here…"

More fumbling in the dark, as Erik searched for a blanket and settled it, gently as a feather, across Charles's back. He wished he could crawl into the bed with him—they hadn't slept apart for weeks now—but there wasn't room, and he would only hurt Charles more, trying. Erik stroked his hair instead.

"I'm going to make it right," he said desperately. He took from his pocket the leather bundle he'd scooped from the cobblestones on his way out of the courtyard, and pushed it into Charles's hand. "You see? It's even the same whip. You shall use it on me—as soon as you're strong enough. No more of this nonsense, you getting whipped in my place. We'll be even. Anything they do to you, you can do to me. It cannot be against the law if I tell you to do it."

"What are you saying? No, Erik, no." Charles squirmed his hand away from the whip's handle. "I could never do that, to anyone, but especially not to my friend."

Of course he couldn't, Erik thought. Not his gentle Charles. Erik pushed the whip away and took Charles's hand back in his again, pressing his lips to it. "Very well. But this will never happen again, I promise. I'll look after you. I'll make sure you never get hurt again."

Charles smiled, and touched Erik's cheek, and slept.


	2. Chapter 2

It did occur to Erik, in the months and years that followed, that Lord Sebastian had gotten what he wanted—a well-behaved prince who feared his regent's retaliation too much to act against his orders. It rankled, but Charles was more important. Charles was worth it.

And, slowly, very slowly, Erik began to realize that by giving him Charles, Lord Sebastian had also gotten something he had _not_ wanted—a prince who loathed and distrusted him, not just in careless adolescent rebellion but in grave earnest. A prince whose dearest companion also loathed and distrusted him, and encouraged Erik to question and learn about what was around him, when Sebastian would have much rather he remained a spoiled, sulky princeling who cared only about his own pleasures.

Charles taught Erik to rein in his temper, while Erik taught Charles to stiffen his spine. Erik made sure Charles received visits from his sister, and never had to go home to his stepfather; Charles held Erik's hand when he had to lead the public mourning ceremonies for his parents. They argued fiercely over the ethical dilemmas proposed by their tutors, competed ruthlessly in horse races, and bruised each other in fencing lessons. They taught themselves chess from a book, when Erik found an old set that had belonged to his parents, and broke into the wine cellars to swipe a bottle of something strong and oddly fruity that gave Erik a headache. On summer nights they fell asleep in chairs by the open window, where they talked until nearly dawn; on winter nights, they curled together in the bed for warmth, poking and complaining of each other's cold feet.

Erik kept his promise, ruthlessly controlling himself so that Charles was rarely punished and never whipped. He always had the X-shaped scar on Charles's back to remind him, a sudden stab of guilt whenever they stripped out of their clothes to jump in the river or hot springs together.

As they got older, though, it always wasn't the scar that Erik thought about when he saw Charles without his clothes. It was the creamy, freckled skin of Charles's shoulders, the muscles that shifted when he moved, the faint furriness beginning to bloom across his chest… Even when they were fully clothed, sometimes Erik's eyes would catch on the curve of Charles's lips, the way his hair tumbled across his forehead before his quick, lively fingers shoved it back.

Erik didn't have any idea what to do about that. Did people always just… grow aware of each other like that, as they got older? Maybe it didn't mean anything. Maybe he was just proud of how strong and handsome Charles had grown, after his ugly-duckling beginnings. Like anyone would feel about a little brother. Weren't he and Charles like brothers?

And Charles had nothing to do with why Erik reacted so badly when Lord Sebastian brought up the idea of marriage.

"I don't even have my majority!" An extremely obvious fact, seeing as how Erik was not yet King, but surely a relevant one nonetheless.

"Of course you wouldn't marry until after your birthday," Lord Sebastian said, waving this aside like a cobweb. "But now is the time to make arrangements. Truthfully they ought to have been made already."

"Why?"

Lord Sebastian paused in his perusal of Erik's library shelves. Erik thought it had been a sign of respect, Sebastian coming to Erik's spaces instead of summoning him to appear in his own, but perhaps he had only been trying to soften Erik up. "Why? Your Highness, you are to be King. It is not only right and proper that you should have a Queen at your side, but necessary for the propogation of the bloodline and therefore the stability of the kingdom. This cannot be a new concept for you."

Well, no, it wasn't, but Erik had always thought of marriage as some far-off thing he must do someday. When he was grown, he supposed—but he would be eighteen in six weeks, and coronated in eight. Hadn't he been protesting for the last year and a half that he was practically grown already?

Erik fumbled his way to a seat, something he never did in Sebastian's presence if he could help it. He didn't like the way it felt to have his regent looking down at him.

"I suspect Lord Sebastian already has a young woman in mind for the position," Charles murmured. The hand he put out to rest against Erik's chair might look casual to anyone else, but to Erik's eyes it was clear that Charles was as staggered as he was by this conversation, and needed both the connection to Erik and the physical support.

"I do," Lord Sebastian said. "Lady Emma, the second daughter of Lord Frost."

Erik felt his lip lift in a sneer. "Just some daughter of an earl, for our future Queen?"

"Erik," Charles said, in the half-scolding, half-disappointed tone he used when Erik was being rude.

"Frost is not just any earl, which you would know if you'd been paying attention to your own court. He is the head of a faction, powerful and growing more so. Marrying his daughter will boost your own power without threatening Frost's; everyone wins." Sebastian shrugged and turned back to the shelves. "In many cases, it would be preferable to ally yourself with another royal house, but all our alliances are solid enough. I feel it is more important to show favor to your own people, when you are so untried and unknown."

"Am I to be permitted to meet the lady," Erik said, his voice emerging more acidic than he expected, "before pledging my life to her?"

"If you feel that's necessary," Sebastian said with a sigh. "But I can assure you now that Lady Emma is intelligent, well-mannered, and quite beautiful. I could have said 'beautiful' first and stopped there—what else does any young man care about?"

"A young man may care about a number of things," Erik said. Charles's hand had slid down the edge of the chair to its arm; Erik laid his own hand over it, instinctively, and felt cold fingers twine with his own. "At least you have said many times that I should."

"Very well, I will arrange a meeting for tomorrow." Sebastian moved toward the door, then paused, eyeing their clasped hands with a mild and opaque expression that sent a chill down Erik's spine. "Until tomorrow, Your Highness," he said, and bowed.

"My lord," Erik said flatly, not reciprocating the bow as his regent left the room.

 

 

That night, he and Charles lay back to back in Erik's bed, the silence—usually companionable—somehow painful and tense.

"You must marry," Charles whispered at last into the low-embered darkness. "There is no getting around it."

"I suppose," Erik murmured back, and his chest seized with the sudden and total realization that he did not want to marry, ever. If he married, Charles would have to move to his own chamber. Erik would be expected to attend to his wife before anyone else, spend his time with her, share everything with her. Suppose she and Charles did not get on? Suppose she wanted him sent away? That couldn't happen.

Erik's stomach was twisting into knots. Any woman he married, he told himself firmly, would have to not only accept and approve of Charles, but win Charles's approval in return. If this Lady Emma could do that, perhaps he would marry her as Sebastian wanted. If not, then neither hell nor high water would get him to the altar.

 

 

Lady Emma, arriving for a garden tea the next day, shone like snow in the sunlight. Her white gown shimmered with pearls, as did her white French hood, pale blonde ringlets spilling from beneath it. Her skin was luminously pale, her eyes icy blue. Any mirror would have declared her the fairest of them all, Erik had to admit, but the sight of her left him cold. Not that he had ever quite known why men made fools of themselves over women; he had thought he would understand as he got older, but if he was old enough to marry, surely it was time?

"Your Highness," Lady Emma said, curtsying with perfect form.

"Lady Emma." Erik bowed over her hand and turned to pull out her chair—but the lady had stopped, staring in apparent surprise at Charles, who was waiting to be introduced.

"Oh—so that is what you meant," Lady Emma said. "That is, Lord Sebastian said you had insisted on speaking to me alone, saying the servants would be chaperone enough. That must be why your… whipping boy is here."

Charles shifted his weight, cheeks flushing, and Erik ground his teeth. "His Grace the Duke of Greymalkin," he said stiffly, "is my closest companion, and no one's servant."

"Ah," Lady Emma said, her own cheeks pinking as she perceived her misstep. "Of course. It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace."

Charles returned the pleasantry, as perfect and stiff as Erik had ever seen him, and they all sat down to tea and sandwiches, though Erik would rather have turned his back on Lady Emma and never thought of her again.

Against all odds, conversation slowly bloomed, though not through any effort of Erik's. Lady Emma proved as charming and vivacious as promised, but Erik still was not pleased. Her wit rivalled Charles's in cleverness, but was considerably more vicious, and her brilliant smiles were a great deal too self-satisfied for Erik's taste. She seemed to think that leaning down to adjust her skirt, which flashed her decolletage masterfully, would endear her to Erik; it did not. He was tempted to say so out loud, just to see how she would respond.

"—of course you are some little bit older than His Highness, are you not?" Charles was saying.

"Really, Your Grace, to ask about a lady's age," Emma said, but her expression was indulgent. "I am some little bit older, of course. The bride can hardly be younger, when the groom himself is still waiting on his majority!"

"So you have been eligible to wed these last few years already," Charles said. "I wonder that no one has snapped you up."

Lady Emma's eyes cooled a few degrees, but her smile never wavered. "There was no hurry, after all. And as it happens, I am glad to be still… available to serve the Crown." She turned her dazzling smile to Erik. "Assuming the Crown wishes to be served, of course."

Erik gave her a tight, noncommital smile, and drank some tea.

Was Lady Emma perhaps unsettled by her target's lack of response? In any case, she turned back to Charles. "And what of you, Your Grace? Has any young lady of our court been lucky enough to attract your attention as a possible future duchess?"

"Oh." Charles seemed startled by the question. "No. That is, I had not given the question any thought. I am younger even than Prince Erik, you know, and the matter has certainly not been urgent. Greymalkin is in the capable and very willing hands of my stepfather."

"Yet your situation must change, of course, very soon now, with the Prince's ascension and marriage. Do you not plan to return to your ancestral lands?"

"I…" Charles looked shaken, as if this had never occurred to him, and blue eyes flicked toward Erik's, wide and uncertain.

"I see no reason whatsoever that the Duke's situation should change," Erik said, his voice as hard and flat as stone. He gripped Charles's hand under the table.

Lady Emma visibly floundered for a moment before managing, "Well, of course, he must stay at court if that is the King's will! I'm sure it will be a relief to Your Grace, nonetheless, being removed from your current post. Ha, post—I'm sure it has involved the post in the courtyard more often than you would like."

The woman was _laughing_ about Charles being whipped. Erik found he had abruptly had every bit of Lady Emma's company that he ever wanted to have. He pushed to his feet, knocking his chair over behind him. "It is time for you to leave, Lady Emma. Immediately."

Emma's eyes had gone wide. "Your Highness—"

_"Get out of my sight."_

A pair of servants bringing more refreshments stopped in their tracks, staring. Lady Emma's cheeks were bright red as she gathered her skirts and rose. "Of course if Your Highness wi—"

"Do not make me speak a third time!"

She didn't.

 

 

"Are you deaf, Sebastian? I said I am not marrying her, and you cannot make me, and that is the end of it."

Lord Sebastian looked as agitated as Erik had ever seen him, pacing the length of Erik's receiving parlor like a beast caged—and infuriated by the indignity of it. "First impressions can be quite incorrect, Your Highness. Lady Emma has many qualities you will find useful—nay, necessary—in a queen, and her family's status—"

"Is completely immaterial compared to the fact that I despise her. As I do you, come to think of it. Why are you even here, Sebastian? If I wanted your company I would have requested it." Erik had retreated to his own rooms in an attempt to calm himself before he did anything else ill-advised, and yet here Sebastian was, appearing unsummoned and making that impossible. At least he was confining himself to the parlor and not intruding on Charles in the chamber beyond, who had gone to bed with a headache. Erik could not blame him in the slightest, after the conversation he'd endured.

"Your Highness, I have only ever tried my humble best to serve the Crown with which your parents entrusted—"

Erik stepped into Sebastian's path, and spoke into his face at an uncomfortable proximity. "You have tried your humble best to control my every move from the day my parents died. You have been King in all but name for near a decade, but now the time is coming that you must give it up. I advise that you resign yourself to doing it gracefully, Sebastian, or it may be the last thing you ever do."

With that, he picked up his riding coat and swung it over his shoulder on his way out of the room.

 

 

A long ride through the grounds, galloping the horse as hard as it would go, returned Erik's temper to some form of equilibrium. Spouting off at Lord Sebastian had been unwise, perhaps, but he was heartily sick of tiptoeing around his regent. In a matter of weeks, Sebastian would have no further power over Erik, and if the man was as intelligent as he seemed to think, he would use this time to ingratiate himself with his future king, not earn his wrath. Doubtless Charles would still scold, and tell Erik not to take out his fear of becoming king on everyone around him—and he would be right, though hot oil and the rack might not make Erik admit it.

By the time he returned the horse to the stable, Erik was impatient to get back to Charles. They would have their argument, and Erik would bring him something to help his head, and brush off his few other obligations for the day to stay in and play chess with him, ignoring every thought of kingship or marriage for just a few hours.

But when he arrived at his rooms, he did not find Charles lying quietly in bed. The bedchamber was empty.

Almost before he had time to grow alarmed—and annoyed, where had the fool boy wandered off to at a time like this?—he heard commotion from down the hall, and stepped out to see a great knot of people approaching.

Dr. McCoy, hovering nervously and barking orders. A smattering of pale, wide-eyed servants, mostly favorites of his and Charles's, weeping or shouting or wringing their hands. MacTaggert and a couple of her men, carrying between them the torn and bleeding form of a boy with brown hair.

_"Charles!"_

"Make way, Your Highness," MacTaggert snapped, and the whole group rushed past him into Erik's rooms, minus the weeping servants, who stopped at the door and gazed fearfully within. Erik followed MacTaggert and Dr. McCoy to the bed where they were laying Charles—the wrong bed, Charles never slept in his own bed, _stop!_ They settled Charles facedown on top of the blankets, and Erik got his first clear look at what had happened.

The whip had shredded Charles's shirt, embedding bits of fabric in his wounds, and the wounds were… extensive. Deep slashes crisscrossed his back in every direction, curling around his shoulders, trailing down to his buttocks and even his thighs. It had to be at least thirty lashes, maybe forty. Maybe more. Blood poured in sheets down tattered scraps of skin.

MacTaggert had held herself back, once, to spare Charles as much as possible. Why not this time?

Erik had slammed MacTaggert against the wall before he had any conscious awareness of the decision. _"How could you do this? I'll have your head on a spike at the gates—"_

"Erik." Charles's voice was rasping and exhausted, his eyes barely open. "She didn't do this, Erik."

Erik jerked his hands back from MacTaggert, letting her fall to the floor, and just stared at Charles, whose eyes were closed now. He was right, of course. MacTaggert was only the tool, no more to blame than the whip itself. It was Erik who had caused this, Erik whose hotheaded insistence on thumbing his nose at Sebastian had brought this down on Charles.

For a moment, Erik just stood there, lightheaded and sick, watching. MacTaggert scurried past him to help Dr. McCoy, who was up to his elbows in Charles's blood, giving urgent orders to the guardsmen without seeming to notice the tears streaming down his own face. Charles did not stir.

Erik turned and ran from the room.

 

 

He circled the outside of the palace twice without any significant improvement to the rage and terror churning under his skin. Knowing it was wildly unwise, he went in search of Sebastian.

He burst into the outer parlor of the regent's chambers without permission or announcement, disappointed to find no one in the room. He had hoped to frighten Sebastian, if only for a moment, or perhaps to interrupt and embarrass him in the midst of some important meeting. Foiled, Erik growled under his breath—then found himself startled into quiet.

Voices. He could hear two people talking through the next door, the door into Lord Sebastian's bedchamber—the distinctive smug, cultured tones of the man himself, answered by a woman. Sebastian was unmarried. What woman did he have in his bedchamber? Erik held his breath, trying to hear over the pounding of his own heart.

"—whipping boy scheme does not seem to have gone the way you expected." The woman sounded amused, and her voice was familiar. Where had he heard it?

"Yes and no," Lord Sebastian replied. "The little duke has made Erik more malleable to an extent, and provided a very useful lever. I cannot wait for His Highness to discover the consequences to his latest actions, they are certain to be the highest melodrama."

"Yet the boy himself encourages Erik to get out from under your thumb. And as we have seen today, his influence has single-handedly scuttled your oh-so-perfect plan to make me Queen."

Emma. That was Lady Emma's voice. Erik eased his way closer to the door, careful to make no sound.

"You will be Queen one way or another, my sweet," Lord Sebastian said, indulgent and reassuring. There was a sound of movement, and Erik was now near enough to the door to catch a glimpse of what lay within—Sebastian and Lady Emma, in a state of complete undress, some little modesty preserved by the tangled covers of Sebastian's bed. The movement had been Sebastian shifting closer to Emma, to stroke her hair as it tumbled down her shoulder. "If the little duke continues to be an obstacle, we will remove him. And if Erik still proves uncooperative, we will remove him as well, and I will marry you myself."

"I do like a flexible plan," Lady Emma said, and leaned in to kiss Sebastian.

Erik's head was spinning, and as the kissing continued, he decided he needed to be somewhere, anywhere else, immediately. But in taking a step back from the door, he bumped a nearby table with his hip. The sound it made was not loud, but it was enough to cause a sudden, startled silence within the bedchamber.

Erik turned to bolt, but before he could go more than a few steps, he heard Lord Sebastian's voice behind him.

"Your Highness. What a surprise."

Caught, then. Erik turned, making certain his expression was imperious and calm, as if his entire soul were not screaming for Sebastian's death.

"I did not intend to disturb you, Lord Sebastian," he said, raising an eyebrow in the direction of the bedchamber door, which Sebastian had closed behind him. The regent was wearing a dressing gown, clearly thrown on with haste. "I knocked, and thought I heard you call me in. May I inquire as to the identity of your new… companion? Are congratulations in order?"

Lord Sebastian's posture relaxed minutely at this implication that Erik had not heard the details of their conversation. "She is no one of any consequence to Your Highness. I hope you will forgive a mortal man his foibles. And his poor timing—I should have expected you would seek me out. May I assume you are here regarding your whipping boy?"

"You had no right—" Erik began, but Sebastian raised a finger, cutting him off.

"Of course I have the right, dear boy. Punishing young Greymalkin for your misdeeds is precisely what I have the right and duty to do. In this particular case, you were spectacularly rude not only to me but to a lady of the court who was your invited guest. I would be doing no favor to your education to let that pass unpunished." He gave an elegant shrug. "I hope that you will learn from it, as any King must learn that his actions have consequences for his subjects. But perhaps both His Grace and I have failed in teaching you this—he forgives you so easily, I can see why the message might not sink in."

And Erik saw that he had an opportunity. He could protect Charles, at least for the time being, from Lord Sebastian's scheming. "He has not forgiven me this time," he said stiffly. "Charles—he won't speak to me. He won't even let me into the room." _'She didn't do this, Erik.'_ "The doctor doesn't know if he will recover," Erik's throat threatened to lock up; for all that Dr. McCoy had said nothing of the sort, he hadn't said otherwise, either, "and he blames me for it. But it's his own fault! By Jove, he brought it on himself for once—it was he who urged me to reject Lady Emma, he who does not want to hear of me marrying and sending him away. He is thinking only of himself!"

Erik did not think he was imagining the sudden pleased light in Lord Sebastian's eyes. "Quarreling, then, are you? And not without cause, for if what you say is right, His Grace did indeed deserve what came to him. What a selfish, short-sighted and frankly bizarre thing to say, that a King should remain unmarried and keep always to the company of his whipping boy? He must know that it cannot be done!"

"Of course it cannot," Erik said. "And Lady Emma… has all the virtues you claimed, and more. I would have liked her to stay longer."

Sebastian was beaming now. "Well, you stung her pride exceedingly, Your Highness, but I will see if she cannot be persuaded to make a second visit and receive your apology."

"Please do," Erik said, and, not trusting himself to speak any further lies without trying to choke Sebastian with them, he bowed and took his leave.

 

 

That night, when all the palace was dark and quiet, Erik returned to his rooms.

Dr. McCoy was asleep, an uncomfortable-looking tangle of limbs in a chair at Charles's bedside. He woke when Erik approached, but Erik had eyes only for the young man in the bed.

Charles lay on his belly, his back a mass of bandages and ointments, his breath coming slow and shallow. A blanket was pulled over his legs, but was apparently too much for his upper half to tolerate. Were his cheeks too red, or was that a trick of the dim firelight? He did not stir when Erik brushed fingertips through his hair.

"He is well-dosed with poppy syrup, Your Highness," Dr. McCoy said softly, "and won't wake for some time."

"Is he fevered?"

Dr. McCoy frowned, brushed past Erik to lay a hand on Charles's forehead, and swore under his breath. "Indeed he is, Your Highness. I cannot give him any potions for it until he wakes, but I have a cloth and some water, we had dabbed it on his lips since he cannot sit up to drink…" He turned and picked up a bowl of water from the floor, dipped and wrung out a cloth.

Erik took it from his hand. "Let—let me. Please."

Dr. McCoy blinked. "Of course, Your Highness, if you wish."

Erik applied the cloth gently to Charles's face, half-buried in the pillow, and then the back of his neck, his hands and arms. Charles twitched a bit at the sensation, and then made a tiny broken noise at the pain caused by the movement, all without waking; Erik combed fingers through his hair and made soothing, shushing noises until he settled again.

Another round of washing to all his exposed skin, and a kiss to the back of his hand; then Erik handed the bowl and cloth back to McCoy.

"I will sleep in the guest wing," he said, "so as not to disturb the duke."

"I do not think your presence would disturb him, Your Highness—not yours."

 _She didn't do this, Erik_. "I wish you were correct," Erik said, with some difficulty, "but as His Grace and I are—quarreling, just now, I would not like to risk it. Goodnight, doctor. Let me know immediately if his condition should worsen."

He permitted himself one more touch of Charles's hand before he left.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven days after the whipping, Charles was recovering moderately well. Between poppy syrup and fever, he remembered very little of the first few days, but the fever had faded (to Dr. McCoy's loud and prayerful relief), and Charles had refused the syrup for the last day or so, preferring pain to the sleepy fog the syrup produced. Charles could sit up in bed now, and sleep on his side, and even walk about the room briefly under Dr. McCoy's supervision.

In all those seven days, Erik had not come to see him.

Quite a few other members of the court had come, and scores of the servants and guardsmen, and Captain MacTaggert, who brought him a vase of flowers from the garden. But Erik avoided his own bedchamber, sending valets to fetch his clothes and belongings as needed, rather than see him.

Well, except for that first midnight visit, in which he apparently told Dr. McCoy that he and Charles were quarreling, which had been news indeed to Charles. What in the world would they quarrel about? Did Erik think Charles was angry at him, for the whipping? How could Charles be angry, when Lord Sebastian's reaction had been so far above what they could have expected, and Erik's 'misbehavior' toward Emma been in defense of Charles himself?

And then it all became clear, when one of Charles's visitors—and more than one, because it was immediately all anyone could talk about—brought the news that Prince Erik was betrothed, had agreed to marry Lady Emma, the daughter of the Earl of Frost.

He was marrying her. He was _marrying_ her. She had won him over, somehow—the bizarre and incomprehensible power women were supposed to have over men, Charles supposed, though he had never felt it—and it was no stretch to guess that she had immediately demanded Erik cut ties with the childhood companion that she found so odious. Charles might very well never speak to Erik again, if his Queen did not permit it.

It hurt a great deal more than his back, kept his appetite low and his limbs lethargic with despair and bewildered grief.

"Unfortunately, Your Grace, you are not my only patient," Dr. McCoy was saying, and Charles bestirred himself to look up from his barely-touched bowl of porridge to attend to him. The tall, nervous physician was packing up some of his supplies into his great black bag. "Now that you are in a more stable condition, I must make my usual round of the village, for I know several folk there are doing poorly. Not to worry, some of the servants are to take turns watching over you while I am away."

"I hardly think that is necessary, doctor."

"Let me be the judge of that, Your Grace. Do try to finish your porridge."

Charles did try, as the doctor was replaced by a young seamstress with a lap full of hemming to do, but eventually he thought he must gag if he put another spoonful in his mouth. He set the bowl aside, exchanged sleepy pleasantries with the seamstress, and eased himself down under the blankets to rest.

 

 

He woke suddenly, gripped by a startled unease that kept him still and facing the wall, listening to the voices that were murmuring behind him.

"Looks like the stuff in the porridge did the job." A man's voice, rough and lowborn, unfamiliar.

"We must hope. If he should happen to wake, at least he is expecting some servant or other to be here. He won't question your presence." _That_ voice he knew. Lord Sebastian. "Keep him here until the turn of the glass, then bring him to me in the woods."

"Suppose he don't want to go, my lord?"

"I don't think he'll be hard to convince, if you tell him His Highness the Prince wishes to see him. But if you must, drug him again or simply knock him over the head. Only don't kill him here—there must be no question that he was killed in the woods, at the scene of the murder."

Murder? Whose murder? Someone aside from him—or rather, in addition to him? Charles's heart was pounding so loudly he feared Sebastian and his lackey might hear it.

"I still don't know about this, my lord, begging your pardon," said the lackey. "Everyone knows as those two boys are like each other's shadows. Quarreling or not, ain't no one going to believe His Grace here turned on the Prince."

"To disbelieve it," Lord Sebastian said coldly, "will be to question the honor of the Lord Regent, soon to be the King. How many among your doubtful 'everyone' will be willing to do that?"

"None, my lord," the lackey said after a moment.

"I am glad to hear it. Now, remember—wait for the turn of the glass."

"Yes, my lord."

Footsteps, the open and close of the door; Lord Sebastian had gone, Charles assumed, but the lackey remained. Charles could hear him moving lazily about the room, touching books and knicknacks.

It was a battle to keep his breath even and slow. Sebastian was going to kill him, and worse than that, Sebastian was going to kill _Erik._ And frame Charles for it.

Whatever Charles was going to do about that, he had to do it fast. There was every chance that Erik would be already dead by the time this lackey took Charles out to meet him.

While Charles wracked his brains and tried to gather his strength, the unfamiliar man continued to move about. And then suddenly he paused, and Charles heard a sound like the scrape of a tin bowl over a surface.

"Well," said the lackey, his voice full of suspicion and unease. "Didn't eat much of your dinner, did you, Your Grace?" He began walking toward the bed.

This was it, then, the only opportunity he would have.

As soon as the man leaned over him to see if he was asleep, Charles threw the blanket off himself and over the lackey's head.

"Gah!"

By the time the lackey clawed the blanket off, Charles had rolled off the other side of the bed and made a sprint for the fireplace.

The lackey leaped after him, and if he'd bowled him to the floor as he meant to, that might have been the end of it—Charles couldn't possibly fight, with his back in its current condition. Even rising and running had him gasping with pain. But he dodged the attack by an inch, reached the fireplace, and whirled with the poker in his hand, slashing it across the lackey's face.

The man staggered, clutching at his nose, and Charles wasted not a moment in striking another blow, and another, until the man was on the floor with a bloodied head, groaning but unable to rise.

Charles grabbed boots and trousers and fled the room, locking the door behind him.

 

 

He should tell Captain MacTaggert, Charles thought. He should tell—anyone, anyone he could find. But he passed no one, as he staggered and stumbled to the stables, not even a stableboy. And it occurred to him to wonder whether he could necessarily trust any random person he came across. How many were in Lord Sebastian's pocket? How many, even honest and loyal, would think him fevered and try to take him back? He could not afford any delay.

Saddling and mounting his horse was agony, enough to leave him slumped over the horse's neck with stars clouding his vision. Charles clung to consciousness with all his strength. If he failed, Erik would die, and he could live with any pain but that one.

"Easy, boy." His horse, Cerebro, was shifting and snorting, alarmed by his rider's behavior; Charles stroked his neck and forced himself to sit straight. "Easy, now. Off we go." They hit the stable doors at a gallop.

Charles thought he knew where to go, though the consequences if he was wrong—didn't bear thinking about. But Sebastian always hunted in the east forest, and Erik was partial to the area as well. That would surely have been the ruse Sebastian used to get Erik into the woods alone, an afternoon hunt. Palace gossip had the two of them acting more like father and son these days than they ever had when Erik was a child; Erik had somehow forgiven Sebastian all his faults, or at any rate was acting like he had. So, an afternoon hunt together in the east forest.

Charles turned Cerebro toward the shadows of the trees, and prayed he wouldn't be too late.

 

 

Erik would have rather pulled his own toenails out than go on a hunt with Lord Sebastian, of course, but he'd had to stomach enough of the man's company this last week that he thought another few hours could hardly be worse. At least he would be free of Lady Emma; some ladies hunted, but she was not among them. He repeated to himself that he could not afford to tip his hand to Sebastian yet. In another five weeks, Erik would be eighteen, and have the power to put Sebastian in prison, or on the rack. Until then, to keep Charles safe, he had to play the lovestruck fool and Sebastian's pet.

It did strike him as odd that they brought no servants at all, not even to carry their game—but after all, the light crossbows they carried would not bring down anything very large, and perhaps Sebastian wanted to discuss something in private. He'd been doing that more and more, taking Erik into his confidence, trying to worm his way into Erik's affections as a mentor and advisor. Erik grimaced suddenly, hoping to God that Sebastian was not about to try and give him some sort of wedding-night advice. _To be fair, I suppose Sebastian knows well how to please Lady Emma._

He suspected nothing darker than that, and thus felt like the most utter dunce in the world, when he got down from his horse to examine some tracks and heard the ratcheting of the crossbow behind him.

"What did I do wrong?" Erik said, almost more annoyed than frightened. "I thought I was playing the part very well."

"My dear boy, you've never been nearly as subtle as you imagined," Sebastian said dryly. "More importantly, however, you gave me the gift of a former intimate, now scorned, who can lay quite a lot of his suffering at your feet. A murderer duke! It's too perfect a premise to waste."

Erik spun, and found himself looking straight into the crossbow bolt Sebastian was aiming down at him from his saddle. "Leave Charles out of this!"

"I'm afraid you get no say in the proceedings," Sebastian said, almost absently, and adjusted his aim. "Farewell, Your Highness."

 _"Erik!"_ The shout reached them even before the crashing of a galloping horse in the brush. Sebastian turned toward the sound, and Erik took advantage of the distraction to draw his hunting dagger and bury it in Sebastian's thigh.

Sebastian cried out and fired the crossbow, the bolt flying wide. He kicked at Erik's face, knocking him to the ground with the dagger left behind in its target. Erik was dimly aware of his frightened horse running off into the trees, taking most of Erik's weapons with her.

Before Erik could get to his feet, the other horse burst out of the underbrush and slammed into Sebastian's, both animals whinnying in distress. Erik recognized Cerebro, but he did not need that to know the rider was Charles. He could never fail to recognize that voice.

Sebastian's horse staggered, Sebastian struggling to regain control of it, and Erik took the opportunity to grab the regent and haul him down from the saddle. They landed hard, and scrabbled in the dirt for a few seconds, until Sebastian managed to pull the dagger from his own leg and swipe it at Erik's face. Erik caught at his arm, but it wasn't going to be enough to prevent a second pass, one already twisting to aim at his throat—

"Drop it." Charles's voice was hoarse and breathless, but the deadly rage in it was nevertheless clear. He had pulled Sebastian's sword from his belt as he fell from the horse, and now had its point dimpling the great artery in his neck.

"Your Grace," Sebastian said, smooth and cautious. "I think perhaps there's been some terrible misunderstanding—"

"Not another word from your lying mouth. Drop the dagger."

Placatingly, Sebastian spread his hands, the dagger dangling from one—and spun himself away from the sword, the knife carving a wide circle in the air until it hit Cerebro in the back of a hind leg, slicing a tendon.

The horse screamed, instantly listing far to the side, and Charles tumbled from his seat, hanging on just long enough to inadvertently pull Cerebro down on top of him as he fell.

Sebastian turned immediately back to Erik, leaping on him with the dagger—but Erik barely noticed, too much occupied with his own desire to kill Sebastian. Later, he barely remembered how it happened, nor did he want to. The next thing he clearly knew, he was standing over Sebastian's body, with the regent's own sword in one hand and a bloody rock in the other, both of which had seen considerable use. There was no question of whether Sebastian was dead.

After a long, sick, panting moment, Erik threw down both weapons, and ran to Charles.

Cerebro, limping and bleeding, was standing over his master, nosing at him in distress. And Charles, Erik saw with a surge of relief that threatened to put him on his knees, was alive, reaching up weakly to stroke his horse's nose.

Erik fell down beside Charles and pulled him into his lap, faintly aware of tears streaming down his face. "Charles. Charles, stay with me."

"Erik." Charles smiled brokenly, his face absolutely white, perhaps because of all the blood spilling from the crushed ruin of his legs. "You're safe. Thank God." His hand rose to rest against Erik's cheek—then fell away again as Charles went limp in his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

It felt like a very long time before Charles remembered anything clearly again. Endless swirling chunks of time, full of frightening dreams and breathtaking pain—but he found he could endure it, because Erik was there. Always, he was there, solid and perfect, the one real and true thing in the nonsensical landscape.

"Stay with me, Charles," he said, over and over, and so Charles did.

One morning he opened his eyes, and knew that he was truly awake for the first time in—however long it had been since that day in the woods. His entire body felt weak and aching, but it was a healing ache, one he would rather endure than retreat back into semi-consciousness. There was sunlight in the window of his and Erik's bedchamber, once again visible at its usual angle from Erik's bed.

"Charles?"

Charles turned his head, and felt a smile take his face, despite the pain of thirst-cracked lips. "Erik. There you are."

"Here I am." Erik looked terrible, exhausted and beaten, but his eyes were shining. "How do you feel?"

"Better. How long has it been?"

"Nearly two weeks. Your fever came back with a vengeance, and did its best to carry you off." Erik had Charles's hand in his, and his grip tightened spasmodically with these words, before relaxing again into a hold so gentle that it was clear he thought Charles might shatter.

"Your Highness, has he woken?" Dr. McCoy came through the doorway, eyes widening at the sight of Charles. "Your Grace! You there," he barked at someone out of sight, "bring water, and broth, quick-time! Your Grace, let me look you over."

Charles did not allow Erik to release his hand, all through the examination. He did not need to ask any questions; McCoy narrated the condition of every part of Charles's body as he looked it over. The whip-marks on his back were all but healed, though the scars would surely linger; the weakness and fatigue were residue of the fever, and would fade; his legs, well, his legs were as well as could be expected. The other physicians brought in to assist had recommended amputating them, but Dr. McCoy thought they could be saved, and there, he was correct, they were healing with no sign of gangrene despite the fever, and had been set as well as they could be under the circumstances, and eventually Charles might even walk again. Perhaps. With a good stout cane, or two. Only time would tell.

This was not encouraging news, Charles knew, but for the moment, he was too glad that God had spared his life at all to be unduly concerned.

Servants brought water and broth, as bidden, and Charles emptied both vessels eagerly, only to find himself exhausted afterward.

"Rest, Your Grace, rest will heal you as much as anything I can do," Dr. McCoy said. "Do not fear to close your eyes. All those you want to see," he glanced fondly at Erik, "will be here when you wake."

 

 

He was right. When Charles next woke, it was in the deep of night, the bedchamber so familiar in the dim light of the fireplace that he was briefly disoriented, wondering how much of what he remembered was real, or a dream.

But Erik was not in the bed, and that was all wrong. He sat in a chair beside it, as he had once before, and now Charles remembered clearly—that he had been whipped, and left alone, and then Lord Sebastian had tried to kill them.

"Erik," he said softly, and Erik started awake instantly.

"Charles? What is it?"

Charles bit his lip, already sorry that he had woken him, but he felt suddenly that he could not go another moment without asking. "Erik, why are you here with me now, when before… you did not even come to see me, much less stay by my bedside. Why?"

Erik looked pained. "It was to fool Sebastian, to protect you from him. You were too great a threat to his influence over me; he was already planning how best to remove you."

"You might have come and told me that."

"I…" Erik swallowed. "I was not sure I'd be welcome."

"What?" Charles reached out, fumbling blindly for Erik's hand, and found it. "How could you think that? Erik, I love you more than anyone in the world."

"That's not how you seemed to feel then. You blamed me for the whipping, as well you should. What could I even say in my defense?"

"What do you mean I blamed you?"

"You said—when I shouted at MacTaggert, you said it wasn't her fault, it was mine."

Charles rubbed his eyes, trying to sort through days and days of fever-dream in search of the memory. "I would never have said it was your fault, for I never thought or believed that it was. It's true that it wasn't Captain MacTaggert's, either. She didn't even wield the whip, Sebastian did it himself that time. I had never seen him so wild with anger, out of control, like a child in a tantrum."

Erik let out a breath, pushing his hair back, as if things had suddenly become clear. "I was angry that she hadn't held back, like she used to do. And you said 'she didn't do this.' Because _Sebastian_ did?"

"You're very thick, sometimes, Your Highness." Charles dredged up a smile, an effort but a welcome one.

"Yes, I think perhaps I am."

Charles hesitated. "Can you… would you… that is, I'm quite sure there's room enough here for the both of us."

Erik looked up, his eyes so hopeful and thrilled that Charles wished he'd said it earlier. He could do little to move about and make room, but Erik circled the bed and squeezed in beside him, an arm wrapped carefully around his torso to pull him close.

And things felt suddenly different between them, just a little, the air heavy and expectant as a thunderstorm, all of Charles's skin tingling like lightning.

"I don't want you to marry," he said, all in a rush, turning his head so that their faces were only inches apart. "I don't want a woman, or anyone, taking my place here beside you."

"I don't either," Erik whispered. "Did… did you mean what you said before? About loving me more than anyone in the world?"

"Of course I did. I'll thank you not to doubt my word."

"Never," Erik promised. "As long as you never doubt that I love you just as much."

The kiss happened slowly, aching and delicate, both of them moving toward the other in the tiniest increments, as if to avoid frightening some shy creature of the forest. And then finally their lips were touching, soft and sweet and intoxicating, and for the first time in his life Charles understood why men wrote songs and fought wars and ruined themselves for this, _this,_ to keep this wherever they found it. He would do the same, and take a lashing besides.


	5. EPILOGUE

By the time of Erik's coronation as King, the kingdom had begun -- barely -- to recover from the scandal of the Lord Regent's attempt to murder him. Erik had to forbid public access to the luckless graveyard holding Sebastian's body, because everyone was determined to spit (or worse) on the grave of the traitor. The Duke of Greymalkin, previously little known outside the inner circle of the court, was hailed as a hero, and no one made the slightest objection to his immediate appointment as King Erik's chief advisor.

The coronation itself was beautiful, and proceeded without impediment, all involved taking whatever pains needed to be taken so that the convalescent Duke could attend in comfort.

It could not be utterly proven that Lady Emma was involved in the assassination attempt, but as she was certainly guilty of infidelity to the Prince during their betrothal, at the very least, it was mutually agreed she would decamp from the kingdom entirely. King Erik made it known to the border guards that she was not to be permitted re-entry under any circumstances.

The first few years of any new king's reign were certain to be uneven and tense, and among those who whispered about what a rebellious brat the young Prince had been, there was a great expectation of dramatics. It was almost disappointing to find that while King Erik had a towering temper, he had also a keen sense of justice and good sense, including the good sense to listen to the advice of his more level-headed chief advisor. It was soon widely agreed that the old King and Queen would have been proud.

Speaking of the Queen, there was still the issue of that lack. The kingdom must have stability, which was to say, the King must have an heir, and preferably more than one. In a pinch, a nephew or cousin might have done, but there were none available; though resistant to the idea of marriage (understandable after the way things fell out with Lady Emma), King Erik did eventually agree that it was a necessity.

Thus it was that the Lady Raven, sister to the Duke of Greymalkin, was brought to court and married to the King in a splendid and beautiful ceremony. A double ceremony, in fact, in which her brother the Duke was also married, to a blind and rather peculiar—but perfectly respectable—viscount's daughter named Irene, who was a dear friend of his sister's from school.

If it was rumored that the King and Queen slept separately whenever they were not actively engaged in the production of heirs, well, that was not terribly uncommon. And if the rumors of who filled their beds instead were quite a bit more scandalous, well, what of it? The King and Queen ruled well together, and produced a satisfactory number of children, as did the Duke and Duchess. Poor Greymalkin did suffer a great deal of pain in his legs all his life, and walk with a cane, but in most respects it did little to slow him down.

All in all, even the most incorrigible gossips had to admit, things worked out rather well for the Prince and his whipping boy.


End file.
